Moon Cat (unfinished)
written by Ash Wolfsone
Every night, at exactly 11.59 pm, she - it - would appear. It would be gone by midnight. But I never expected it to share secrets. . . If everything goes to plan, I will update this every few days (if I have extra time, maybe daily!) All reviews are invited :P
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
7
Reads
693
Prologue
Chapter 2
Grandma Norris always adored cats. She had three of them herself, two gorgeous Birmans and a Russian Blue. Their names were Pearl, Samphire and Fishi respectively. Pearl and Samphire were charming and loveable. Fishi was nothing special, if a little unfortunately named. Grandma always covered Fishi's ears and whispered that she "only took Fishi under her wing because nobody else would".
I thought Fishi was a little mysterious, as well as unliked by the Birmans. Whenever Grandma was stroking them or showing them off to guests, Fishi would always end up on the floor, courtesy of the jealous Birman cats. They would also eat her food and rip up her toys. Grandma seemed blind to this, always cooing and saying how well they all got along when Samphire would tip Fishi's litter box and Pearl would take the comfiest spot in Fishi's own bed. If I visited Grandma, Fishi would often slink off somewhere else and stay away for ages.
When Grandma died, so did Fishi. It was a stroke. She melted away like ice on a summer's day. Like the loyalest of dogs, Fishi curled up next to her and fell asleep. After we found Grandma's cold body, efforts to wake her smallest cat were futile. Pearl and Samphire seemed not to care, but strutted over Grandma Norris like she was a couch, or, ironically, a cat walk. My brother shooed them off, and after some hissing and spitting, we persuaded them to go away. They pawed into the kitchen, munching from Fishi's food bowl without a care in the world.
I thought Fishi was a little mysterious, as well as unliked by the Birmans. Whenever Grandma was stroking them or showing them off to guests, Fishi would always end up on the floor, courtesy of the jealous Birman cats. They would also eat her food and rip up her toys. Grandma seemed blind to this, always cooing and saying how well they all got along when Samphire would tip Fishi's litter box and Pearl would take the comfiest spot in Fishi's own bed. If I visited Grandma, Fishi would often slink off somewhere else and stay away for ages.
When Grandma died, so did Fishi. It was a stroke. She melted away like ice on a summer's day. Like the loyalest of dogs, Fishi curled up next to her and fell asleep. After we found Grandma's cold body, efforts to wake her smallest cat were futile. Pearl and Samphire seemed not to care, but strutted over Grandma Norris like she was a couch, or, ironically, a cat walk. My brother shooed them off, and after some hissing and spitting, we persuaded them to go away. They pawed into the kitchen, munching from Fishi's food bowl without a care in the world.
